Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me Read Online Free PDF

started it may continue to make trouble; and, as if it was just another insignificant, superfluous tie or link, the murder or homicide is simply lumped in with all the crimes – there are so many others – that have been forgotten and of which no record remains and with those currently being planned and of which there will be a record, even though that too will eventually disappear. And things will happen in London and all over the world about which neither I nor Marta will have any knowledge, in that respect we will be alike, it’s an hour earlier there, perhaps her husband isn’t sleeping on the island either, but spending a sleepless night staring out of his wintry hotel window – a sash window, in the Wilbraham Hotel – at the buildings opposite, or at other rooms in the same hotel which forms a right angle with its two rear wings that are invisible from the street, Wilbraham Place, most are in darkness, staring at that room where, in the afternoon, he saw a black maid remaking the beds of those who have left, in preparation for those who have not yet arrived, or perhaps he can see her now in her own attic room – those rooms are on the top floor, the narrowest rooms with the lowest ceilings, and are reserved for the employees who have no home of their own – getting undressed after her day’s work, removing her cap and her shoes and her stockings and her apron and her uniform, then standing at the sink and washing her face and under her arms, he too can see a half-dressed, half-naked woman, but, unlike me, he hasn’t touched her or embraced her, he has nothing to do with that woman who, before going to bed, has a perfunctory wash, British-fashion, at the wretched sink of one of those English rooms whose tenants have to go out into the corridor to use a bathroom shared with other people on the same floor. I don’t know, I’m not sure, we’ll have to see, or, rather, we’ll never know, the dead Marta will never know what happened to her husband inLondon that night while she lay dying beside me, when he comes home she won’t be here to listen to him, to listen to the story, possibly fictitious, that he has decided to tell her. Everything is travelling towards its own dissolution and is lost and few things leave any trace, especially if they are never repeated, if they happen only once and never recur, the same happens with those things that install themselves too comfortably and recur day after day, again and again, they leave no trace either.
    At the time, though, I still did not know to which category of event my first visit that night to Conde de la Cimera – an unfamiliar street – belonged, I considered leaving and not coming back, it really was bad luck on my part, but then again it was possible that I might come back the next day, today according to the clocks, and whether I did or did not come back, from the moment I left there and as the day advanced, there would soon begin to be no trace of this first or, rather, this unique night. “My presence here will be erased tomorrow,” I thought, “when Marta is well again and recovered: she’ll wash the dirty dishes from our supper and iron her skirts and air the sheets, even those I didn’t use, and she’ll prefer not to remember her folly or her failure. She’ll think of her husband in London and feel comforted and long for his return, she’ll look out of the window for a moment while she tidies up and re-establishes order in the world – in yesterday’s hand one unemptied ashtray – although there is still perhaps a slightly dreamy look in her eyes, growing weaker every moment, a look that belongs to me and to my few kisses, the memory and the temptation and the effect all cancelled out now by malaise or fear or regret. My presence here, so apparent now, will be denied tomorrow with a shake of the head and a turning on of a tap and, for her, it will be as if I had never been here and I won’t have been, because even the time that refuses to